


Of Warriors and Wolves

by Tune33



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death Eaters, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 16:16:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18285815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tune33/pseuds/Tune33
Summary: Death Eater-centric AU set during the Second Wizarding War."He didn't know why she had stepped forward.  Their paths had never crossed before, they'd never spoken.  He hadn't even known her name. Yet as she sat across from him in her cozy sitting room, tea cup in hand and gentle smile on her face, he couldn't help but compare her to the goddess she was named for."Fenrir Greyback/Original Female Character





	1. Goddess of Seidhr

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank the DEE for sucking me into the world of DE-centric stories that I can't seem to escape from. Fair warning that my posting frequency is sporadic due to a severely busy RL (seriously, anyone who is reading Birdsong, I'm so sorry!). This one wouldn't leave my brain so I'm throwing it here! 
> 
> Please note that this is canon divergent, I will attempt to follow general timelines but I make no promises. I also welcome you to use your own fancasts in your imaginations. I have my own visions of what characters look like, but the beauty of the written word is that we all get to have our own little fantasies. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I in no way own any of J.K.R's beautiful characters. I lay claim only to my OC's and general plot line. I give great and glorious thanks to all of the DEE authors that have led me here and in no way attempt to take any of their fanon ideas (please, I've read so many stories in this deep dark well we've created, if you see something that you think was yours first, let me know! I'm not sure that I know what belongs as my own brain child anymore!)

**Goddess of Seidhr**

 

                The air in the vast parlor was cold and sharp, broken only by the whines and whimpers of the poor creature writhing on the polished floor boards.  Around the room others stood like sentries.  The dark cloaks seemed to blend into the shadows, faces hidden by masks that gleamed in the candlelight.  Their eyes held fast to the torture in front of them; to look away was to invite torture upon themselves. 

                “Let this be a lesson!” the words cracked out across the gathering.  The Dark Lord strode around the circle, his crimson eyes flicking from mask to mask, wand clasped tight in his hands behind his back.  His pale skin seemed to glow, an internal shine that drew the attention of his followers like moths to a flame.

                “Failure will not be tolerated! Deviation from the cause will be punished!” Another curse was snapped out and the body in the circle howled in pain.  A giggle escaped the witch who cast the curse as she stood in front, her black curls wild with crackling magic and face unmasked for the world to see.  Bellatrix never did care who saw.  The Dark Lord stopped in front of the gasping man to address him directly.

                “There are many who said I was mistaken to allow you a place here,” he spoke softly, his voice easily heard in the silence.  “I gave you a place in this world, a place to be your true self, and this is how you have used my gift? This is how you act when my mark lays dark upon your arm? You allowed your wolfish tendencies to interfere, Fenrir, and now you have failed to do as I asked.  Why should I not just put you down, like the feral mutt you are?”  The man in front of him did not respond, his lungs unable to draw a true breath and jaw locked in pain as tremors wracked his frame.  Every eye followed their Lord as he strode to the front of the room to stand beside a madly grinning Bellatrix, his arms wide as he addressed the crowd.

                “Brothers! Sisters! I give you the choice.  Shall I dispose of this creature? Or is there one here who would stand for him, that he might be given another chance?” he sneered down at the werewolf, “I dare say one more round might just finish him off.”  There was a pregnant pause, as if the entire room held a collective breath, before a rustling was heard from the side of the gathering. 

                Fenrir struggled to lift his head, black spots dancing across his vision, as a figure broke from the pack to place themselves in front of him, though their slight form did little to shield his hulking mass.

                “Ah,” huffed the Dark Lord with a grin.  He moved forward, reaching out to tip the would-be savior’s face up by the chin. “Truly, my dear? How unforeseen. And why would you place your life on the line for this mongrel?”  The woman’s jaw clenched and she widened her eyes as she stared straight at her Lord, allowing him access to her mind.  His hissed _legilimens_ sent him tearing through her thoughts with a viciousness, though he exited moments later with a chuckle that sent shivers down the spines of his followers.  The fingers on her face tightened briefly, hard enough to bruise, before he released her to continue addressing his audience.

                “Lady Rowle,” he announced, “will stand for Greyback.  She believes that he deserves another chance to prove his loyalty to the cause.  So be it. _Crucio!”_  

                Fenrir flinched, but this time the curse did not strike his body.  Instead, he watched through slitted eyes as the figure in front of him collapsed to the floor in agony.  He could smell the blood as her teeth bit through her lip and hear the hitch in the back of her throat as their Lord finally released her from his magic.  She struggled to her hands and knees, shiny mask pressed against the ground as she forced her muscles to work past the aftershocks.  The gathered Death Eaters looked on, although now Fenrir could sense a tenseness, a discomfort in the group that had not been there before. 

                “Do you still believe he deserves your protection, my dear? To be one of your brethren?” the Dark Lord’s silky voice belayed the cruelty that lay behind the question. 

                “Yes, my Lord,” came the breathless answer.  She did not bother to raise her head from where it was bowed. 

                “Very well,” he agreed.  “Bella?”  The witch behind him cast with unrestrained glee.

                This time the woman did not suffer silently.  The scream that escaped her lips was pitched high enough to cause him pain.  He wished he was in wolf form to be able to lay his ears back and protect his delicate hearing.  The noise seemed to ring out for an eternity before a sharp motion from their Lord directed that the curse be cut. 

                “Thorfinn gather your sister,” he instructed casually, turning away from the collapsed Death Eaters to reseat himself in the throne-like armchair that was settled by the fire.  The colossal blonde hustled forward quickly and Fenrir watched as he bundled the smaller woman into his arms and shuffled her back into the crowd.  His sensitive ears picked up the whispered conversation between the siblings (“ _Of all the bloody stupid things” “Fuck off Thor”)_ and part of him continued to stay focused on her stilted breaths and her fluttering heartbeat.

 

The meeting moved forward, and as Fenrir had not been dismissed, he continued to lie upon the frigid floor concentrating on letting his magic slowly try to heal his wounds. It would be faster if he could shift, but he dare not do so until the meeting was adjourned.  The Dark Lord continued on as if the previous torture session was of no consequence, calling members to step forward to give their reports and directing others in their next tasks.  Finally, finally, the meeting seemed to come to an end.

“Rowle, Dolohov, come forward for your assignment.  The rest of you are dismissed,” he waved the group away.  The werewolf slowly forced himself up off the floor, eyes cast downwards even as he took in all the hushed conversations around him as the gathering disbanded.  His focus sharpened on the whispers from the direction of the Rowles (“ _Go, I’ll be fine” “Stay safe” “And you”_ ). As Thorfinn marched forward by Dolohov’s side, the woman slipped into the crowd of cloaks making towards the apparition point outside the wards. 

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

               

There was a certain safety to be had when she was amongst the group, one shadow in the many.  She had intended to stay hidden there until she could apparate away, but the aftershocks of the cruciatus curse slowed her down, muscles occasionally tightening and jerking without rhyme or reason.  By the time the edge of the wards was in sight the majority of the gathered Death Eaters had already disappeared.

                “ _Little Lady Rowle_ protecting the _big bad wolf_!” She flinched as Bellatrix’s voice sing-songed out from behind her.  Her grip on her wand was looser than she wanted as her bicep twitched in remembered agony, but she spun smoothly enough to face the witch.  She cursed silently when she noted that Rodolphus stood beside his wife and Rabastan was not far behind.  An unfair advantage. 

                “You know Trixie, I’ve always been fond of subverted fairy tales,” she drawled in response, casually adjusting her stance to better support a shield charm if necessary.  The vicious grins from the Lestrange men made it seem likely.  Bellatrix merely cackled in response, hips swinging provocatively as she ambled closer.  She was brought up short by a growl that echoed around the lawn.  Wolves seemed to slink out of thin air around the group, glowing eyes and flashing fangs set against glistening coats of fog and darkness. The pack moved with silent purpose, coalescing around the woman who had protected their leader.  The Alpha wolf himself limped forward until he stood beside her, icy blue glare focused on the witch and wizards before him.  Bella huffed in annoyance at the interruption in her game but the sharp smile never left her face.

                “Looks like our conversation is over _Little Lamb_ ,” she cooed, eyes flicking back and forth between woman and wolf, “Best run along home before somebody _eats you up_ ,” she giggled at her own choice of words. 

                The wolves were like a nebulous buffer, their shifting bodies allowing her the protection she needed to shuffle the couple steps backwards until she was passed the barrier of magic.  Only then did she break her focus from the Lestrange family, golden eyes peeking out from the mask of silver to catch those of vivid blue. There was a murmured “ _thank you”_ and with a pop of disapparation she was gone. 

               


	2. Goddess of Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence against a minor, graphic depictions of violence (not really that graphic but better safe than sorry)
> 
> Still unbeta'd, still DE-centric, still my OC.

**Goddess of Beauty**

 

                It had been three days since that wretched meeting.  The shift had helped, the strength of the magic in his werewolf form acting like a balm over his aching muscles.  It soothed away the tremors, knitted skin and bone back into place, and centered his mind.  It did not, however, help his mood.  He felt like some beaten cur, crawling home to lick its wounds.  His pack gave him a wide berth, unwilling to be on the receiving end of his snapping temper.  He couldn’t blame them. 

                He chose to roam to a clearing on the edge of their territory, needing the space to sit and work through his thoughts.  Fenrir knew that the fault lay with him.  After all, he was the one who had gotten his pack into this mess to begin with.  His lips raised in a snarl as he recalled the pretty picture the Dark Lord had painted as he lured the werewolf to his side.  _Freedom from persecution; werewolves rising up, unchained, unhunted, **unregistered**_. _The dawning of an era of pride in the pack._ Oh, he knew that all the snotty pure-bloods wanted nothing to do with the “half-breed”.  It was almost worth it to see the disgust in their eyes when their Lord had placed his mark on Fenrir’s arm. 

                Worth it until he’d realized that even in the Dark Lord’s Army the werewolves would never be anything more than second rate citizens.  Monsters used to frighten the Light, kept hungry and on a tight leash until they could be released at the opportune target.  He winced at the thought.  Unfortunately, when you release a hungry beast there is no guarantee it will go where you point.  _Hence the torture session._

                They’d been told to target the family of a ministry official that was making the Dark Lord’s takeover...difficult.  It should have been an easy mission.  He’d only taken a couple wolves with him, intending to infiltrate the house in the dark of the night and slaughter them all in their beds.  A simple plan.  The wards had been easy to bypass, and the family had no house elves to protect them.  It had all gone wrong when they’d reached the bedchambers.

                He supposed if they had found the parents’ room first it would have worked out.  Instead they’d found the children.  The boy, perhaps 13 or 14 and home from Hogwarts on break, had been taken out easily.  A swift death.  But the girl…she was only 7 years old, and Fenrir could sense the _strength_ in her.  She was the perfect little pup to add to his pack.  And that was the foolish decision that led to him screaming in agony on the floor of the Malfoy’s manor. 

                The girl had shrieked ( _strong lungs, strong girl)_ when Greyback had ripped into her, marking her, infecting her, blessing her with his lycanthropy.  Her terror and pain brought her parents running.  Her mother had burst forward, her desperate motion halted in a spray of blood as one of his wolves pounced.  But her father…her father, the wretched cowardly worm…her father took one look at the scene and dissaparated away.  Fenrir huffed in annoyance at the memory.  He’d gained a pack member ( _strong, she’ll come around quickly with the memory of her father’s abandonment)_ but he’d lost the ministry official that had been his target.  And had gained the Dark Lord’s great displeasure. 

                He shook his head, like a dog shaking off water.  He wouldn’t dwell on the torture. Not now. Instead he turned his mind to what happened after.  Fenrir would never claim that he knew all of the masked Death Eaters who attended the meetings and revels.  He knew that, contrary to the popular belief, there was a mix of men and women in the group.  He knew that there were families amongst the marked: fathers and sons, brothers and sisters, generations of pure-bloods dedicated to the cause.  But he knew next to nothing about _her_. 

                He’d worked alongside Thorfinn Rowle on a few missions in the past.  Thorfinn was a brutish fighter.  The only thing bigger than his size was his temper, and he had a penchant for setting things aflame.  He also had some sort of relation to the Russian, Dolohov, as the two had been paired together on tasks often since his escape from Azkaban.  Fenrir had never noticed the female Rowle getting paired with them however.  _Lady Rowle_ , Bellatrix had snidely called her.  He supposed it was probably the correct title.  If memory served him, the elder Rowle ( _what had his name been? The brethren used to just call him “the Nord”)_ had perished in the First Wizarding War.  Then again, Fenrir had been on the outskirts of the fighting that time around and hadn’t had much reason to keep track of which of the “Sacred Twenty-eight” were pledged. 

                Why had she stepped forward to protect him?  He paced the clearing, long legs striding from one side to the other and back again.  What did she gain? She hadn’t spoken to him beyond giving her thanks before she left.  Had she expected him to follow?  His growl rent the air in frustration, silencing the forest around him.  He needed to know, and he wasn’t going to get any answers here.  She may not have expected him to follow her home, but follow he would.  After all, as the Dark Lord had so succinctly pointed out, Fenrir Greyback had very poor impulse control.  The sharp crack of dissaparation filled the clearing.  After a few moments of silence, the birds started to sing once more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

                She’d been curled up on the arm chair next to the fire in the library when the house elf popped in beside her.  The potions she’d been taking had been doing wonders to decrease the after effects of the cruciatus, but after three days she still felt like she couldn’t quite get warm enough.  Even the roaring flames beside her didn’t seem to reach all the way to her core.  _When Thorfinn gets home I’m going to make him hug me for an hour, the man’s a bloody furnace_ she thought to herself with a smirk.

                “Mistress,” the elf squeaked, gathering her attention, “A man be at the front door. He is saying he is wanting to speak with the Missus.”  The elf wrung her hands in worry as her Lady set the book down and gingerly stood. ( _The potions may have been doing wonders, but her bones still felt brittle like a bird’s)._   

                “Mistress,” the distress in her little voice was clear, “he be saying his name be Greyback.”  The woman froze.  She’d expected him to chase after her.  Had expected his wounded pride, his rage, his demand for answers.  And after the second day had passed with no werewolf in sight, she’d relaxed in the assumption that she had been wrong.  Perhaps he wanted to think on the matter as little as she did.

_Idiot._ She chastised herself. _He needed to heal, just like you did. Probably more…_ her mind flashed to the scene she had been forced to watch.  They hadn’t stuck to the cruciatus curse for the werewolf; his blood had stained the wooden floor long before the first _crucio_ had been thrown.   It had seeped out of ragged wounds and been coughed up past a ruined throat…  The little elf’s hand on hers broke her glassy stare. 

                “Where is he?” she asked.

                “Dottle no be letting the wolfie insides without the Mistress’s say so,” the elf huffed in response. “He is be on the front stoop, waiting.”  The woman couldn’t help but smile down at the protective little creature.

                “Let him in, I’ll meet you in the foyer,” she instructed, the elf disappearing with a bow and a pop.  The witch took a moment in the library to straighten out her dress, smoothing wrinkles with a flick of her wand.  A quick breath, a straightening of shoulders, a shifting of her chin, and then she was striding to meet the wolf at the door.

 

* * *

 

 

                The little elf that had slammed the door in his face reappeared, opening it wide to allow him entrance to the manor.  He bared a fang at it in annoyance but the miniscule servant was fearless as it glared at him in response.  If he’d been in a better mood, he’d probably have laughed at that. 

                He glanced up at movement in the front hall to see a woman gliding toward him.  The other night, with the whole gathering cloaked and masked, he hadn’t had a chance to see what his ‘savior’ truly looked like.  Knowing her relation to the blonde giant, he’d admit that this wasn’t what he expected.

                “Lord Greyback,” she greeted, her voice sweet and low.  He took her proffered hand in long forgotten manners, bowing over it to brush his lips against her soft skin.  His nostrils flared in the moment, breathing in the scent of sage and cedar that clung to her.  It was a surprisingly natural and calming fragrance.  Her smile as she delicately extracted her hand from his was almost as soothing as her smell. 

                “Dottle, serve us refreshments in the side sitting room please,” she instructed the elf, turning and indicating that the wolf should follow her out of the front hall.  They settled into a small parlor, the fire already crackling merrily and the elf bustling around with the tea tray as the two seated themselves on opposite sides of the small table.  When the elf left the room with a crack, the witch leaned forward to begin serving the tea.

                “Preferences, M’Lord?” she asked, her hands busying themselves with the chore.  A puff of startled breath left her when his meaty hand shot out to grasp her wrist, arresting her movements.  His long fingers wrapped around her delicate bones with ease, a soft voice in his head whispering how simple it would be to snap them.

                “I ain’t no Lord, kitten,” his graveled voice washed over her as she kept her eyes averted.  When he released her, she completed her task placing one sugar and a dash of milk in his anyways before leaning back with her own cup in hand.  Her eyes finally met his then, pools of honey glancing up through dark lashes as she seemed to drink him in along with her tea.

                “Fenrir, then,” she agreed amicably, “as you are so aptly named.  Tell me, sir, do you have much background in Norse mythology?”  His head cocked to the side, forehead ruffled in confusion over the turn the conversation had taken.  The grin she shot him in response to the canine-like gesture made him tense, but her tone didn’t tease as she continued on.

                “My father’s side of the family quite enjoyed being entrenched in the mythos,” she explained, “but my mother’s side was French.  In the end, they kept to the Rowle naming tradition but my mother was allowed her choice.  I’ve often wondered if she has a touch of the Sight, seeing as how accurately she named us.”  Her teacup was settled back into its saucer with care, and then her hand extended over the table towards him.

                “Freyja Rowle,” she introduced herself softly, and he took her hand in his again, this time for a shake instead of a kiss. 

                “Fairly sure you know my name,” he growled in response, though his grasp this time was gentle, belaying the harshness of his tone.  She chuckled at that, gathering her teacup once again and leaning back into her chair.  Her comfort in his presence surprised and confused him. He realized as the silence stretched on that she was giving him the chance to speak, allowing him to lead the conversation.  It was rare for any of the pure-blood followers to do anything more than sneer in his direction, let alone invite him to sit for tea.

                “You don’t look like your brother,” he blurted out roughly.  It was the least of his questions regarding the woman, honestly, but it was the first thing on his mind.  When she had greeted him in the front hall he had wondered if he had approached the wrong home.  Thorfinn Rowle had at least a foot of height on his sister, and his muscled mass often struck fear into his victims before he even raised his wand.  His long blonde hair, full beard, and piercing blue eyes gave him the look of the Viking God he’d been named for.

                Freyja on the other hand, was a mix of delicate bones and mouthwatering curves.  _Child-bearing hips_ his mother would have stated, with an approving nod.  He could see the resemblance in the siblings in the sharp stroke of their cheekbones, the strong line of their nose, and the confident way in which they held themselves, but that was where it ended.  Where Thorfinn’s eyes were glacial, Freja’s were pools of molten gold. Her brown locks had been twisted back into a tight bun that drew attention to the long lines of her neck, pale flesh just begging to be ravaged.  Her light laugh drew his attention back to the conversation.

                “Yes, we get that a lot,” she hesitated, her fingers tapping on the china mug in consideration before continuing, “it makes more sense if you see us with our younger sister.  Thor is the spitting image of our father, I take after our mother, and Ostara is a fairly even mix of the two of us.”  Another Rowle? His eyes jolted around the room, as though expecting the spoken of sister to pop out of the corner. 

                “She lives in France with our mother.  They moved back there after my father passed,” she answered his unspoken question.  He nodded in response, finally moving to pick up his own beverage.  The civility of being seated in the manor’s sitting room, sipping tea with the manor’s Lady felt false after years of being treated as more animal than man but he gritted his teeth against the emotions that welled in response. 

                “Have you eaten yet?” she asked suddenly, the ease gone as her frame seemed to fill with nervous energy, “I could have the elves prepare something if you’d like?”  He stared at her, wondering what in the world was going on.

                “Why?” his sharp question seemed to only confuse her.

                “It’s only polite to offer refreshments…” she began before he cut her off, his growl causing her to tense.

                “Why did you step forward, why are you being so polite, why do you give a fuck?!” his voice gained volume as his questions poured out and she flinched at the tone, all comfortableness in his presence leaching away in the face of his ire.  Her bright eyes flickered away from him, jumping from place to place around the room before settling on the hands that clenched together on her lap.

                “Despite the mark on my arm, I’m not fond of senseless violence,” she answered softly.  She continued when he stayed silent, the pressure in the room urging her on. “You are marked as my brethren, even if some may sneer at the thought, and as such you deserve my respect.  Even if you weren’t,” she hesitated again, eyes flicking up to glance at him, taking in his tight jaw and flaring nostrils before dropping back to her lap, “even if you weren’t marked, I probably would have stepped forward.  Just because I follow my Lord doesn’t mean I agree with all of his decisions. I hold no animosity for the werewolves.”  Her own jaw tightened then as she stubbornly refused to continue babbling an answer.  He held perfectly still, eyes cataloging her movements, scenting the air for lies.  All of a sudden his own tension eased, and he settled back in his chair, grumbling about ‘ _bloody confusing females’._  

                She glanced back up at him then, eyes seeming to strip him bare.  Her gaze stroked over his wild hair, long brown strands only starting to have a hint of silver.  It dipped over his broad shoulders, skipped down his muscled arms, lingered on his strong hands tipped with wicked talons that he refused to shave down to match the wizarding “normal”.  It flitted over his wide chest covered only in a barely buttoned shirt, and slid to his brawny thighs encased in buttery smooth leather.  When her eyes finally raised back up to his own, he huffed in amused annoyance and waved a disinterested hand in confirmation.

                “Yeah, kitten, I could eat.”  Her smile lit up the room as she called for the house elf. 

                He didn't know why she had stepped forward. Their paths had never crossed before, they'd never spoken. He hadn't even known her name. Yet as she sat across from him in her cozy sitting room, tea cup in hand and gentle smile on her face, he couldn't help but compare her to the goddess she was named for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for giving the second chapter a chance! If you're lucky, I'll manage to chug out one more before my weekend ends!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed the first chapter! Feel free to drop your thoughts in the comments! (and I swear you'll get an actual name for our OC in the next installment!)
> 
> Note: This work is unbeta'd. Any errors are my own.


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